"Why, don't you see," says he, "it would be making a false entry, and—I—I——Well, I've never done such a thing in my life, Torchy, and I can't begin now."
And, say, what do you know about that, eh? Just a piece of phony bookkeepin' that he don't even have to put his name to, his job gone if he don't follow orders, and him almost to the age limit anyway, with Son in Law Bennett ready to shove him on the street the minute he gets the sack!
"Do you mean it?" says I.
He puts his signature to the resignation and hands it over for me to read.
"Say, Dudley," says I, lookin' him up and down, "this listens to me like a bughouse play of yours; but I got to admit that you do it sporty. There's no ocher streak in you."
"I hoped you would understand," says he. "In the circumstances, it was all I could do, you see."
"What I see plainer'n anything else," says I, "is that if this goes through your career is bugged to the limit. When do you want this handed in?"
"As soon as possible," says he. "I suppose I ought to resign at once."
"Resign!" says I. "You'll be lucky if the old man don't have you chucked through the window. Better be waitin' down in the lower corridor when I spring this on Mr. Ellins."
Nothin' of that kind for Uncle Dudley, though. He starts straightenin' up his desk as I goes out, as calm as though he was house cleanin' for a vacation.